Haymitch's Quell
by Victor Wizard Half-Blood Spy
Summary: This is the story of Haymitch and his Quarter Quell, his journey from ordinary District 12 boy to the Victor of Panem's 50th Hunger Games. Reviews appreciated! Thanks to those who already have :D
1. 1: Home

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I make any money from this fic. All characters you recognize are Suzanne Collins'. If you don't recognize them, they're mine

Home

Waking up always makes me uneasy. The haziness between the twilight darkness of my dreams and the bleak sunlight pouring in through my dirty windows, combined with the slightly dank smell of the coal-dirtied water my mother uses to wash the clothes makes my heart thump, and my skin clammy. My befuddled mind dregs up a thought.

_Reaping Day_.

Rolling out of my bed, I hit the floor running. My brother stirs on his mattress across the room. Catching a glimpse of my dark tousled hair in the bathroom mirror, I'm kneeling at the toilet in seconds, hands outstretched on the seat, sending yesterday's dinner into the depths. I heave again, spewing brown sludge and collapsing onto my elbows with the force of my sickness.

I stay like that for a while. Beads of cold sweat collect on my brow, and slide down the bridge of my nose, dangling there for a second, unsure of whether to fall into the unknown mess below, or stay safely trapped on with me. It takes the leap, and I sit up.

Pulling the flush, I stagger to the sink, rinse out my mouth and splash my face with the cold water that pours from the iron tap. I look into the mirror again. I am in no condition to go meet my mother.

I seat myself at our multipurpose table. My mother is in the kitchen, cooking something for us to eat. Papers are strewn across the table. Catching my brother's name, Vander, on one of the papers, I pick it up, and see that it starts: "_Dear Ms. Abernathy,"_. I put it back down. It'll be another letter from the school, asking for a meeting with my mother to discuss by brother's "behavioral problems." I put it at the bottom of the pile, so that she doesn't see it.

My mom comes in with a plate of something. I don't know what it is, but I don't care about what I eat. It's my brother who's picky.

"Haymitch," says my mother. She has done this every reaping day since I was twelve, old enough for my first reaping. In four years, her speech has barely changed.

"Haymitch," she repeats. "You're sixteen now. You have your name in the bowl 15 times. There are many boys out there who have a much higher chance of being picked than you. They will be picked. You will not. You are going to come back to this house after this Reaping." As an afterthought she adds, "So will your brother." Vander is thirteen now. This is his second reaping. "Do not worry about the reaping. You will not get picked. Now eat your breakfast."

Mothers. They think that their children never grow up. On normal days, I might have been annoyed with her for being so sentimental. But today is not a normal day. Today, I run the chance of never coming back to this house. So I pull my mother into a quick hug, and release her, just like I have done for four years.

She's not done, though. This part is new. "Haymitch, you know that this year is the Second Quarter Quell. You know that there's double the chance of you going into that arena, and that there will be 47 people trying to kill you if you do. You're smart. You're quick. You're strong enough. You even have the advantage of good looks, if what Leanne says is anything to go by." My lips twitch as I smile at the mention of my girlfriend. "So, if you are in, I wouldn't count you out."

I don't know who she's trying to convince, me or herself. We both know that I would have no chance in hell of winning these Games. The Careers from 1, 2, and 4 have been training their entire lives for these specific Games. Being a Victor is an honor, and being a Victor of a Quarter Quell would be an honor matched by none. I don't say anything.

I get up and leave the house. I said I would meet Leanne before the reaping, so I head over to her villa. Leanne, unlike me, lives in the rich part of town. You can see just by looking at her. She's not fat, but she looks healthy. So many people in the Seam, the part of the District I come from, look like they eat less than a meal a day. Courtesy of my mom's "occupation" as a cook, we earn enough to get by, even if we never eat the kind of food she makes for the "rich" of our District. There are still nights where we go hungry. Leanne doesn't know what going hungry _is_.

In front of her house now, I'm still awed by the opulence of it, even though I've been a regular visitor for around a year now. The shiny pillars, the porch, the gleaming windows, all display the families penchant for spending the money that they have earned. In District 12, where coal dust from the mines that are the district's lifeblood settles on everything, a single clean thing stands out amid the darkness of its surroundings. Leanne's whole house is the area's one clean thing.

She meets me outside wearing a red printed dress that I can immediately tell she hates. It looks stiff, and she tugs at her collar thrice before she even gets within arm's reach.

"You look beautiful." I tell her as I wrap her in my arms. "I never thought that printed dresses would suit anyone." I grin so that she knows I'm teasing, not mocking. On a day like this, where either of us could be separated forever, I feel like its easier to joke about something inconsequential, rather than think about something like the Games.

"Shut up." she says, smiling, letting me know that she's joking just as much as I am. The response is short and simple, and very, very Leanne.

We walk together in chattering about school, friends, anything but the Hunger Games. There is no activity in the streets except for a flow of people towards the center of the District, where the Reaping will take place.


	2. 2: Four Unfortunate Souls

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I make any money from this fic. All characters you recognize are Suzanne Collins'. If you don't recognize them, they're mine

AN: Thanks to all those who have reviewed already. Keep reading, and keep reviewing! ~VWHBS

Four Unfortunate Souls

The square is set up as it always is on Reaping Day. There is one central area, where two Peacekeepers sit, taking the attendance of everyone passing through, ensuring that everyone is where they should be. From this area, three lines are cordoned off. One leads to the section where everyone who is not eligible for reaping will stand. Another leads to where all the boys that can be reaped are, and the last is the same, but for girls. All around the square are huge television screens so that everyone can easily see the poor tributes when they step onto the stage. The stage, right in front of the Justice Building, holds a couple of rickety chairs, a podium, and a rather disgruntled looking lady.

Within a second of looking at her, it's obvious that she's from the Capitol. Her hair is a shocking electric blue, along with her eyelids. Her lips are painted a neon green, and her clothes are the brightest of oranges. She fancies herself pretty, I guess. I wonder what she'd look like stripped of all her Capitol pretentiousness, dressed in the clothes of District Twelve. Would she look like my mother, weary beyond her years from having to raise two boys after the death of her husband? Or would she be more like Leanne, who looks at life with undeniable exuberance, her happiness masked by sharp wit? Or perhaps more like my brother Vander, confused and unlucky, rolling through the day, taking the barbs of others with the same indifference he takes my compliments, or my mother's love? I don't know.

I hold hands with Leanne until the gate, where we must go our separate ways, she to her group, and me to mine. A quick kiss, a clasped hand, and we part, without a word. What could there be to say? "You'll be OK?" Both of us are realists. There's a chance I neither of us will come back to the square. I wonder if I'll kiss her after today. If I'll look at her and be able to tell her just how much I love her. She must be wondering the same.

In the group, I quickly find my brother Vander, listless as always, fidgeting with his hands, and looking around, clearly scared. His checked shirt sticks to his back with perspiration in the unusually cool day. I clap a hand on his shoulder, softly, and he looks at me.

"What's gonna happen, Haymitch? Who's going to be taken away today? Another one of your friends? Another one of mine? You? Me? I'm scared, brother. I'm very, very scared."

I don't like it when Vander speaks like this. Not because of what he says, because I often have the same thoughts, but because when he voices them, they invariably come through. Vander, whatever his oddities, has hunches. Good ones.

"We'll be okay, Vander." I find lying to my brother easier than lying to anyone else. He takes everything I say with absolute faith.

The escort stands up, and a hush falls over the crowd.

"Welcome, one and all, to the Reaping for the Fiftieth Hunger Games, and Panem's Second Quarter Quell!" She stops for a moment, an awkward second in which she expects applause, and District Twelve waits for her to move along.

After a pregnant pause, she steps back from the podium, and a video starts to play on the television screens. We see the replay of President Snow reading out the card which told us what special torture the Capitol would inflict on us this year.

Onscreen, a Capitol boy approaches the President with a heavy wooden box. It's coloured like our table at home. My guess is that it's mahogany. The boy waits as the President draws an envelope from the box, clearly marked with a large "Fifty," then walks away, leaving the President alone. He opens the envelope, and says:

"In the Second Quarter Quell, as a reminder that two rebels from the Districts died for every Capitol citizen, twice the number of tributes will be reaped." President Snow looks at the screen, and smiles, showing his teeth. His slanted eyes, his pinched nose, his bared teeth, all make him look so much like a snake that I'm repulsed, taking a step back. As soon as the moment comes, though, it disappears, and the screen fades to black.

For a moment, the whole district holds its breath. The only sound is the wind blowing through the forum, leaves rustling, children who are too young for the Reaping fidgeting, and a baby softly whimpering. Then, the mayor steps up to the podium, and breaks the silence.

His speech is one that everyone in District Twelve has heard every year since they were born.

"Hundreds of years ago, a nation was here, where we stand today. It was plagued by bad governing, corruption, illness, and eventually fell to its enemies around the world, after being embroiled in a bitter war for decades. From the ashes of this fallen country rose Panem, a shining Capitol surrounded by thirteen districts. For years these groups coexisted peacefully, until the districts, led by rebellious and traitorous men, attacked the Capitol that governed them. This Capitol won this Civil War, and as punishment, obliterated District Thirteen, and brought the Hunger Games to Panem. The districts were told to annually send two of their children, one male, one female, twenty-four in total, to the Capitol to fight to the death in an arena. The winner would be crowned as a Victor, and given all possible rewards, and their district would be honored with presents from the Capitol for the entirety of the year. In the fifty years of the Games, District Twelve had had the honour of producing one Victor, Christian Banks! And it is he whom I would like to welcome to the stage!"

A lean and unshaven man walks onto the stage to unenthusiastic applause, waves his hand to the crowd distractedly, and slumps into his seat. He's forty-five, at a glance. I obviously wasn't alive when he won his Games. It's clear to see that he's a broken man. I wonder what his Games did to him.

The mayor steps away from the podium, and the escort steps up.

"Let's start with the girls, shall we?"

She walks up to the bowl.

Leanne's name is in it only five times.

The escort picks a name.

Leanne hasn't taken tesserae.

The escort walks up to the microphone.

There's such a small chance that my girlfriend will be picked.

The escort unfolds the paper.

I whisper to myself: "Breathe, Haymitch."

"District Twelve's first tribute for the Fiftieth Hunger Games is... Miranda Capulet!"

I exhale. A small whimper cuts through the silence, coming from the girl's section. I watch as a girl, probably twelve, walks out of the crowd, and onto the stage. She's tiny. She won't last a minute in the arena with forty-seven other competitors, and she knows it. Tears flow down her face unabashedly, although she doesn't make a sound. I can hear her mother crying in the background. The escort smiles at the poor girl, shakes her hand, opens her green-rimmed mouth, shuts it without saying anything, and moves onto the other bowl.

She plunges her hand in, and takes out a slip of paper. Like every year since I was twelve, my heart stops at this moment. I start to sweat. My vision blurs. I feel like I can't stand up, and I lean against Vander. He notices, but he doesn't say anything, or even look at me. My brother, the rock.

The escort opens up the piece of paper. "District Twelve's second tribute is... Tybalt d'Ithaca!"

Relief.

A big, lumbering eighteen year old, the size of a mountain, a boy who had entered the mines early, steps out of the crowd. Physically, he is about as different from Miranda as he can be. Where she is small, almost pocket-sized, he is large, with hands like shovels, and legs like tree trunks. Where she is crying and whimpering, he is walking with his chin up, eyes forward, lips set in a grim line. Where she is young, at her first Reaping, he is eighteen, at his last. A more different pair would be hard to find in all of District Twelve.

If this had been last year, or next year, or any year except for this one, I would have been out of the square in minutes, leading my brother by the arm, seeking out my mother and Leanne in the crowd. I would kiss Leanne, and she would go with her family to her home, and I would go with my family to my home. My mother would hug my brother and I, and we would eat a dinner of turkey and tesserae mush, somehow spiced up by my mother's cooking skills.

But that would be on any other year. This year, I have to go through the agonizing torture of the Reaping again, see that hand plunge into the bowl again, live through the possibly imminent announcement of my death again.

This time, I feel less pain, less emotion, as the escort struts over to the bowl to take out the slip of paper from the girl's bowl. She walks back over to the microphone. I hate her stupid walk, the little bounce she puts into every step, the noise when the front of her foot hits the ground, because she's too lazy to pick up her feet when she's walking.

The escort opens her mouth again, to condemn to death another one of District Twelve's children, to ruin another life. "District Twelve's third tribute for this year's Hunger Games is... Maysilee Donner!"

A girl, a year younger than me, walks out of the crowd, and onto the stage. She's small, but not as small as Miranda. Unlike Miranda, she's not crying at all. Her head is up, and her eyes staring straight ahead. In the crowd, I can see three girls clinging to each other, crying. Two of them look to be her sisters, and the other is probably a friend. They follow her as close to the stage as they can, until they are met by a wall of peacekeepers. Maysilee turns around and waves, a sad wave to the District as a whole, before she mounts the stage.

Leanne's safe from the Reaping now, at least for this year. Now it's just Vander and I that I have to worry about. The Capitol still has the ability to tear us away from our homes this year.

The escort walks over to a Reaping bowl for the last time this year. As she gropes around for the slip of paper, a thought hits me. The person whose name is drawn from that bowl will actually be the last person Reaped for this year's Hunger Games. All forty-seven of their competitors will already know their fate, that of being thrust into the arena. Their names on their little pieces of paper will have dipped and ducked the others in the bowl, trying their hardest to avoid being picked, when, at the last moment, right before relief could be achieved, they're snagged by an escort's groping hand.

My senses feel sharpened. I can see little details that I hadn't noticed before. A bead of sweat trickling down the face of the boy beside me. A fleck of green lipstick that's been smeared on the escort's face. Vander's chest expanding and contracting, in and out, in and out, as he tries to control his breathing.

She's at the podium for the fourth time today, ready to condemn someone else to their death. "District Twelve's last tribute for the Quarter Quell is... Haymitch Abernathy!"

AN: I hope you guys liked it! Hopefully, I'll post the conversation Haymitch will have with his family soon, and the train ride should follow directly after. A BIG thanks to my beta reader ChaosandMayhem, who agreed to beta my story even though I'm such a new writer, and she's such a good one :) Go check out her stories, everyone!


	3. 3: Actors on a Stage

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I make any money from this fic. All characters you recognize are Suzanne Collins'. If you don't recognize them, they're mine.

Actors on a Stage 

"Haymitch Abernathy!"

Haymitch Abernathy. Me. I'm Haymitch Abernathy. I am this year's sacrifice, the lamb chosen for slaughter. I am going to die.

I stiffen my back as my name leaves her green lips. Vander clutches my arm, but doesn't say a word. I can see my mother crying, already crying, in the crowd. I can't see Leanne. I wonder what she's thinking.

The crowd parts for me, allowing me a clear view of those dreaded wooden steps that lead up to the stage. The steps that ninety-seven dead children walked up the last time they were in District Twelve, their home. Will this be my last time?

"I have to go." I say to Vander, quietly. I can't let anybody think that I'm a coward, or that I'm overly emotional about my family. The weak ones die first. Vander understands, and he lets go.

I take a first, somewhat shaky, step towards the stage, then another, and then another. I stare straight ahead, giving those hated wooden stairs a stare of my own. I don't want to see the expressions on the faces of my friends, my classmates, my neighbors. Are they sad I've been chosen? Or are they happy they haven't been chosen themselves? I don't want to know.

After what seems to be an eternity of silence, broken rhythmically by my footsteps, or sporadically, by my mother's sobs, I reach the top of those stairs.

Turning, I lock my eyes onto the escorts'. Startlingly, they're a normal brown. Has Capitol cosmetic surgery not yet advanced to that level, or is this brief glimpse of normalcy a conscious decision by the blue-haired, green-lipped, Capitol woman?

She smiles at me, but I don't see the smile reach her eyes. In those brown wells, I don't see a twinkle, but no hardness, either. I see a perfectly crafted blankness, without a crack in its façade. Is it there to hide joy, fear, despair? She blinks, and contact is broken, I feel myself fall back from those brown eyes, onto the stage, where no time has passed while I was pondering.

"Haymitch Abernathy, the last Tribute from District Twelve, people! Please, give all four of our wonderful Tributes a big hand of applause!" She says as she grabs my limp hand from my side in a viselike handshake. I shake back, and she lets me go. I make sure that I show no sign of weakness.

I size up my fellow Tributes on stage as the Mayor makes a speech. Miranda, the small girl without a chance, has stopped crying, and now just sniffs occasionally, her eyes cast downwards, her hands limp by her sides. Starkly contrasting the small girl beside him, Tybalt stares stoically ahead, his eyes looking over the crowd, not into it. His hands clench at his sides, slowly, and relax, just as slowly, in a methodical, recognizable pattern. Watching those hands calms me, but also makes me angry, makes me want to do something, to act on a stage where the whole world can see me. I control the impulse, and my eyes move on to the last of my competitors, Maysilee. Her long golden hair ripples in the breeze that has started up again. Her eyes are blue. I see her eyes, and it's then that I realize she's looking at me, just as much as I'm looking at her.

At this sudden understanding, I drop my eyes, suddenly becoming fascinated with the woodwork of the stage's floor. In my peripheral vision, I see that her gaze has not dropped. I focus on an ant studiously carrying a grain of rice between my feet, and only look up again when the mayor has finished his speech. Thankfully, Maysilee's gaze has left me, and moved elsewhere.

A group of Peacekeepers guides us down the stairs, and into the Justice building. I think wildly of running, but push down the thought before I even give it any serious consideration. Running? Here? It would be a bullet to the back, and that guaranteed bullet guaranteed death. In the Games, I would at least have a chance. At this notion, I scoff again. I have no chance. I'm not coming back to District Twelve.

AN: I apologize sincerely to my three (Only three? Ouch.) followers that this chapter, which was so incredibly short, took so long to finish. I had a bit of a block, and I felt that there needed to be something that fleshed out the Tributes and the Escort, and out of that feeling came this chapter. Again, many thanks to my beta, Chaosandmayhem, who is one of the nicest and funniest people I know. Also, anyone catch the slight Harry Potter reference? Reviews appreciated!


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